


May We Meet Again in Valhalla

by TheSSClexa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa Endgame, Clexa invade England, Clexaweek, Clexaweek21, Day 7, F/F, Free day, Historical AU, Minor lostia, That nobody ask for, VIKINGS AU, yes i'm starting another WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSSClexa/pseuds/TheSSClexa
Summary: Clexa Vikings AU. They invade England. Together.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Costia/Lexa (The 100)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 131





	May We Meet Again in Valhalla

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Assassin's Creed Valhalla because I'm incapable of doing anything without Clexafying it.

_She runs her hand across the grass, her fingers graze each individual blade and the sun is warm on her back. It’s the warmth of summer, and Clarke inhales a deep breath. Upon exhale, the summer sun wisps away in a cloud of dust, and the foliage changes to autumn. The trees vary from yellow to red, and the grass is burnt orange. The smell of mulled spice fills her nose, she inhales, and again on the exhale the scene changes._

_This time, Clarke wakes to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, gently dusting the land and collecting on the branches of a single tall pine. She is sheltered inside, watching the snowfall through a window. Despite the cold weather outside, there’s a warmth that surrounds her, a familiar warmth of hands around her waist from someone she knows—someone she_ trusts. _This person kisses the back of Clarke’s shoulder, their lips are soft, and they nuzzle into the nape of her neck with more kisses. Clarke closes her eyes and sinks into the moment, into the tenderness and embrace of her lover. A hand roams between Clarke’s legs while the other cups a breast. Clarke moans, she can’t help it, and turns to face her lover, cupping the underside of their jaw and about to bring their lips together when—_

_Clarke stops, her eyes grow wide at the sudden recognition of who this person is._

_Lexa._

///

Clarke gasps, choking as if she were drowning and opens her eyes. She stumbles backward from her cross-legged position, kicking the potion chalice over and scrambles to her feet.

“What kind of vision was that?!” She yells at the Seer. “That’s why I never come to see you, it’s because of shit like that. I came to you for guidance on _war_.”

The Seer looks at her in stillness, almost blankly. Clarke hates the Seer. They never offer straight answers, only questions to her questions.

“Did the vision quest not answer your question?” The Seer says, asking Clarke a question, and further proving her dislike for seers.

“I asked you if Lexa could be trusted, not—whatever that was! You’ll find me in Helheim before that vision ever comes to Middle Earth.” Clarke spits. “The Woods Clan has _never_ sided with the Sky Clan. And the fact that the Commander dare ask our help in England’s siege is nothing shy of a ruse.”

“So, it did not answer your question, then?”

“Why do you keep fucking asking me more questions?!” Clarke stomps to exit the hut where a string of stupid beads and shells and bones get in her face. “Thanks for nothing, Seer.”

“Klark of the Sky Clan.”

“What?” Clarke spins around just before exiting.

“You should not delay your decision concerning the Commander’s offer. Your fate, as well as the fate of the Sky Clan, weighs heavy on this opportunity.”

“That makes no sense. What I saw is impossible. The Commander already has a lover. Her name is Costia, and if you were so good at fortune-telling, you could see that Costia accompanied Lexa here—she came at me when I spat in the Commander’s face.”

“You spat in the Commander's face?”

“Again, with the questions. Shouldn’t you already know that Great Seer of the North? Those visions are gibberish and I swear on Odin’s grave they’re more to keep you entertained than actually helping me.”

Frustrated (and now a bit horny), Clarke marches out of the hut and hops onto her horse. Here, at the top of the mountains, the wind is whipping, and Clarke tugs her furs tighter around her neck. It’s at least a few hours ride back down to the village. She knew she shouldn’t have listened to Wells about visiting the Seer, but he insisted. Clarke was and still is, torn about Lexa’s offer to join forces to invade England. Apparently, the Woods Clan had reached resistance further south in a land called Essex, leaving Commander Lexa no choice but to seek the aid of outlying clans and calling the effort a coalition. If Clarke pledges her sword to Lexa, that will make her people the 13th Clan, enough for the coalition to take Essex.

The ride back down to the village is unpleasant, both physically and mentally. The wind continues to blow, and Clarke’s horse is moving at a snail’s pace, trudging through several feet of snow. Clarke is haunted by her vision – the warmth, the tenderness, the _trust_. The vision did, in fact, answer Clarke’s question: yes, Lexa can be trusted. Clarke mulls over this knowledge, which is more of a gut feeling rather than experience, and eventually, Clarke comes to a decision; her war council will not be thrilled about it. Heeding the Seer’s warning, Clarke is prepared to offer Sky Clan’s assistance.

/

Wells is the first to greet her at the edge of Sky Clan territory. He is lazily saddled across his horse and eating an apple. “How did it go?” Wells asks while swinging his leg over and joining Clarke along the main road.

Clarke delays her answer; the vision is fresh in her mind and she pushes it away.

“Clarke?”

She exhales a deep breath. “The Commander can be trusted, and we will be joining her coalition.”

Wells looks at Clarke with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Octavia’s not going to be happy about that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not happy about it either, but my vision came with a warning.”

“A _warning_? What kind of warning?”

“It was about the future of our people. On my way down, I was thinking about how our provisions are less and less each passing year, our winters are longer, and the land is less viable with no guarantees. A coalition with the Commander is seemingly the way forward—new territories overseas mean opening trade and colonization. It won’t be easy, but the alternative is not an option.”

Wells nods, understanding. “What do you need from me?”

“Meet with Jasper, tell him to start building, we’ll need at least double if not triple the number of ships we have now. Lexa said she’s planning to set sail as soon as it warms—enough for the ice to thin and passage through the southwest straight opens.”

“That could be as soon as next month. We won’t be able to double our fleet by then.”

“I know,” Clarke replies. “I’ll meet with Octavia when I return and see to a list of initial volunteers. We’ll sail with what we have. The rest will have to follow in the coming months.”

Without another word, Wells clicks his tongue twice and takes a hard right toward Jasper the Builder. Jasper lives at the opposite end of the territory nearly a day’s ride from Sky Clan’s village, past the rocky cliffs and deep into the forest, rich with oak and pine, ideal for shipbuilding. Jasper prefers to live among the source of his creations—Clarke once came upon him talking to a tree and has questioned Jasper’s sanity. Then again, he is one of the best builders she knows and they’re blessed to have him. His ships are flawless, swift and sturdy, each adorned with a unique figurehead: dragons and snakes, hawks and ravens.

Upon return to the village, Clarke heads straight for Octavia’s hut.

“Octavia?”

Octavia is crafting a set of arrows when Clarke enters.

“Clarke. How was the Seer?”

Clarke’s silence gives her away. Octavia bites her lip and throws a half-made arrow on the ground.

“I know it’s not the news you want to hear, Octavia, but this is the way forward for our people. We have no choice.”

“There’s _always_ a choice, Clarke.”

“Not this time, O. What the Seer said to me—it wasn’t good.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “But why the Woods Clan, Klark? We were nearly extinct because of them and the war they started during the time of our parents. My father, your father, gone. How could you forget?”

“I haven’t _forgotten,_ ” Clarke spits.

Ten years ago, the Woods Clan was under a previous leader, a greedy and misguided commander who started a war with the outlying clans, seeking more land for expansion. They called it the Clan Wars during the time of the Dark Commander. And when the Dark Commander of the Woods Clan waged against the Sky Clan, Octavia lost her father in the first battle. Clarke lost hers in the second. The war lasted almost four years, and Sky Clan was down to only their women and children, fearful for their lives.

At the same time, a coup surfaced within Woods Clan and a new leader emerged: Lexa. Despite her young age, Lexa organized a resistance and overthrew the Dark Commander. Her success put an immediate stop to the Clan Wars and resurrected an old, forgotten Norse prophesy that one day, a young girl would unite all the clans and bring about a new world. Many Vikings believed that to be Lexa. Not long after withdrawing Woods Clan forces, Lexa daringly set sail for fabled shores to the west. Unknown shores with the promise of new riches, silver and gold and gems, and plentiful lands for harvest. Evidently, Lexa found those shores and now, four years later, faced an enemy they could not defeat.

“And now that they’ve met their match somewhere on the far end of the world, they dare seek our help?” Octavia says.

“It’s not just an alliance with the Woods Clan. Lexa said it was a coalition of all the clans.”

“Yeah,” Octavia huffs with doubt. “What she claims to be a coalition. For all we know it’s a ploy to draw our fighters out, leaving our lands with minimal defense and open for attack.”

“Look, we’ve been at a truce with the Woods Clan for almost six years since Lexa took over as commander of the Woods Clan. There’s no reason why we can’t trust her now.”

“But you don’t _know_ that.”

“No, I don’t—” Clarke pauses midsentence, “—but I can’t ignore what I saw in the Seer’s hut. Gather the fighters and prepare the ships. We set sail next month.”

/

_6 months later – Somewhere on the eastern shores of Essex._

Clarke brushes the curtain aside leading into the Commander’s quarters. It’s within one of the largest tents on the encampment accommodating not only the Commander’s sleeping quarters but the war table with a loosely drawn map of Essex. Details remain to be filled as scouts return—if they return, but Clarke is not here to study the chart nor push figurines around and theorize war strategies. She’s here for Lexa; she’s worried about Lexa.

“How’s the Commander?” Clarke asks.

“About the same,” Costia responds. She’s lying beside Lexa and dabbing a cool towel across Lexa’s forehead.

Three days ago, they were ambushed while transiting the River Blackwater. The river tapered and forced the fleet into a funnel, where a heavy chain slung across the narrowest width of the river rose from the water. It impeded their progress, causing the vessels to bunch when a rain of arrows came from above. They had no choice but to immediately retreat when Lexa took a rogue arrow through her back. Thankfully, they were able to remove it by pulling it through her stomach, but she has been in-and-out of consciousness since. Feverish and pale.

“Is there anything I can do?” Clarke asks.

“Pray that Odin doesn’t want her more than we do,” Costia replies almost sarcastically.

Lexa is a great warrior. One of the best, if not the best Clarke has ever fought alongside. And no doubt Lexa would have a seat reserved at Odin’s table in Valhalla.

“Lexa is strong, she’ll pull through,” Clarke says, offering a wry smile. “And what about yourself? Have you rested, Costia?”

Costia smiles, looking down as if her eyes would betray her. “You’re too kind, Klark of the Sky People.” She looks up. “But you need not worry about me.”

Clarke nods, and although Costia didn’t indicate needing any help, Clarke automatically collects the old bandages and the water basin. The notion goes unsaid when Clarke returns with fresh water and new dressing, and together, she and Costia change out Lexa’s bandages. Lexa murmurs incoherently and while Costia hushes Lexa with soft words, Clarke cleans and redresses the wound.

“I sent more scouts to both the west and south,” Clarke says, eyeing the map table upon her exit. “See if there’s another way around or a different tributary we can drop in.”

“You still blame yourself for the ambush,” Costia says. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Clarke swallows guiltily. “I knew I should have sent a scout boat upriver. I should have gone upriver myself, I knew it felt too quiet. Too still.”

“That’s not your burden to bear. That decision weighs on all of us—myself included. All 13 Clan leaders agreed on the launch upriver. Even with a scout boat, there was no guarantee we could have known about the ambush. The chains were concealed underwater and they likely wouldn’t have attacked a lone vessel.”

It’s true, the vote was unanimous to set sail upriver, but still, Clarke clenches her fist. “I should have been more cautious. We’ve grown too complacent over the past several moons, become accustomed to being safe on the water with these minuscule riverside raids. The small towns, farmhouses, and monasteries, all with minimal defenses. Clearly, taking a city is different—we just had to learn it the hard way.”

Clarke’s eyes land back on Lexa. Lexa is sound asleep. She looks peaceful and Clarke wants nothing more than to protect her—to keep Lexa safe. Clarke can’t identify how or when she began feeling so protective of Lexa. She supposes it’s the result of the same traits that make Lexa the great leader she is. Lexa bears a presence that instills devotion. Her confidence and courage are emboldening, and Clarke would have never imagined such a degree of loyalty. Clarke remembers the day when she bowed down to Lexa on behalf of the Sky Plan and pledged her sword to the coalition. She did so with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Clarke’s insides swirled with doubt and unease, worried about her people at the risk of betrayal. Over the past six months, Lexa has been nothing but true to her words, and Clarke now understands how Lexa was able to lead the rebellion against the Dark Commander; why people believe her to be the one to fulfill the prophecy; and why they would die to protect her at all costs.

“I won’t be far if you need anything,” Clarke says to Costia before departing the tent.

Thankfully, Lexa’s condition improves significantly over the next few days. Her fever breaks and she regains consciousness, though still bedridden during her recovery in the weeks following.

It’s late when the moon hangs high and the wick burns low. Clarke is hovered over the war map, filling in details the scouts have come back with. The other clan leaders have long departed and Costia is running perimeter checks. Twirling a piece of coal in her hand, Clarke sketches a set of mountains paralleled by rolling plains eventually leading to a lake outside of the city. Clarke contemplates this path that circumvents walls of the city, where the river splits at the lake and potentially dropping in their fleet at the opening. The city would never expect their forces from the west, from upriver versus down.

“You should rest, Klark.”

Buried within the map, Clarke is startled by Lexa. “Commander—you’re awake. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was keeping you up.”

“You weren’t,” Lexa replies softly. “What are you studying?”

“I sent some scouts further west and they returned with more details about the city—around the city. I was just filling it in.”

Lexa is slow to sit up, shifting as if to rise and make her way to the war table.

“Don’t get up,” Clarke says quickly and gathers the map. “Here, I’ll come to you.” She brings the parchment to Lexa’s bedside, opening it before Lexa while sitting at the edge of the bed.

It’s been many months since Clarke has thought of her vision, or the vision has come to mind. Clarke doesn’t actively think about it and the sudden proximity to Lexa brings it back to realization. Lexa is wearing nothing but a basic tunic, her hair is in a series of messy braids, and Clarke feels as if she’s intruding on an unspoken boundary to witness Lexa in such an unkempt state. Clarke's breath hitches and she scoots to the very edge of the bedspread, teetering uncomfortably on one butt cheek. It seems wrong to behold such a vulnerable and intimate image of Lexa; Clarke has nothing but respect for Lexa _and_ Costia.

Clarke worries the Seer’s vision was a premonition and she doesn’t want to ponder the _how._ Instead, Clarke turns her attention to the map, tipping her chin at the new information.

“Scouts found a divide in the river where we could potentially drop in and attack from the upstream side. They said it was minimally defended. No walls, two-person foot patrols, and a mere lookout post.”

“Upstream?” Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “And how are we going to manage to get our fleet upstream?”

“Here.” Clarke points at the plains. “We disassemble some of the ships and use the logs—” Clarke pauses, hesitant to present such a bold tactic before the Commander in fear of disapproval. “—I haven’t quite thought it all through, but I was thinking we roll the ships across land or create tracks that enable them to be pulled. They’ll never see us coming.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything for several seconds, studying Clarke’s drawing paired with her strategy. Slowly, the corner of Lexa’s mouth curls and she smiles at Clarke. While Clarke has witnessed Lexa smile many times before, it’s usually in the company of Costia but this one is for her, and Clarke’s heart skips a beat.

“That’s a brilliant idea, Klark. I think you might have just won us the war.” Lexa gives her an approving pat on the shoulder. “Gather the other clan leaders. Once we reach consensus, start dismantling the ships.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Clarke insides bubble with pride. Lexa believes her—Lexa believes _in_ her, and together they will win this war against the Saxons.


End file.
